


Getting There

by scheherazade



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, M/M, Slow Burn AF, though i'd characterize it more as a parboil myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 12:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: When he was ten, Andrea Joyce playfully asked him in an interview, "So when can we expect to see you at the Olympics, Nathan?"He thought about it for a second. Math had never been that hard for him. Ten plus eight."In 2018," he told her.





	Getting There

**Author's Note:**

> ftr, i was shanghaied onto this ship kicking and screaming. i did not ask for any of this.

He doesn't actually remember the first time they met, but he does remember the first time Yuzuru skated past on shared practice ice, smiled at him and said, "Hello."

Except that's not right either. Yuzuru is always smiling, so the first time they met he was probably also doing that. That slight tilt of his head, eyes crinkling. Smiling always makes his face look even softer, kind of angelic.

He remembers a couple months later, Yuzuru leaning against the boards—waiting for his coach maybe; he never did find out—and that same smile again.

"Hello."

"Hi," the memory of himself says back. Except what he probably said was something closer to _uh_ , because talking to Grand Prix and Olympic gold medalists hadn't exactly been part of his training. "It's nice to meet you—" Maybe it should have been part of his training. How's he supposed to address the guy? Asians get weird about that kind of thing. 

"My name is Yuzuru."

"Oh my god, no—I mean. I know who you are! Obviously."

Yuzuru laughs. There's nothing even remotely mocking about the sound, which is kind of refreshing. It's possible he's spent too much time around Adam Rippon.

Yuzuru says, "And you are Nathan." Careful syllables. "May I call you Nathan?"

"Yeah, of course." He's heard his name pronounced all kinds of different ways over the years, by coaches and by his grandmother and by his brothers when they're in the mood to make fun of him. It's not a difficult name to pronounce. It sounds pleasant, though, this particular version. "Nice to meet you. Yuzuru."

For some reason that gets him another smile. "Call me Yuzu."

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Nathan wonders how he got from there to here. 

Here being a deserted corridor in the Gangneung Ice Arena, sitting on a couple upturned crates, drinking some kind of banana soda milk and watching Yuzuru fiddle with what looks like a new Pooh keychain. He must have thousands if not millions of those things. It's a wonder he's not sick of yellow bears by now. But Yuzuru seems to have a higher tolerance than other people do for slightly childish things.

They'd run into each other at the vending machine. Nathan had slipped out to use the restroom and found Yuzuru peering ponderously at the buttons labeled for cola and tea and some other foreign drinks he doesn't recognize.

"Hey, Yuzu," Nathan said. 

Yuzuru looked up. Nathan stopped; this was the part where Yuzuru usually went in for a hug, because Yuzuru never outgrew hugging people. But not this time. For a split second, Yuzuru's expression was totally blank. For a split second, Nathan thought shit, the dumb worries he'd had on too many late nights were actually all true and Yuzuru does blame him for the injury that'd nearly knocked him out of the Olympics. Except it's not like Nathan forced him to add more quads. Nathan just—pressured him? Or something? Because that's the sport. That's what a good rival's supposed to do. Right?

They hadn't talked in a while.

Before he could backtrack or physically back himself out of the situation, though, Yuzuru smiled at him. "Long time no see, Nathan." 

"Yeah. You, too. Long time—what's that thing you say? Hishaz…something."

" _Hisashiburi._ " Yuzuru's eyes twinkled. "It's okay. Your English is very good!"

"Wow, thanks. Your Japanese isn't bad, either."

Yuzuru laughed. "And how is your Korean?" 

"Uh. Worse than my Japanese? Why?"

"I was—" Yuzuru shrugged at the vending machine. "I'm not sure what to buy."

Nathan stuck his hands in his jacket pocket. He had a couple coins from when Mirai dragged them all out for touristy things earlier. "Wanna split something?"

Yuzuru blinked slowly. "Split…?"

"Share. I mean, in case you get something you don't like? I don't know what any of these are either. Unless you want sparkling water. Is that sparkling water?"

"Oh," said Yuzuru. He was smiling again. "Yes, okay."

So, yeah. Chronologically speaking, at least, that's how Nathan ended up here, drinking what tastes like artificially flavored soy milk and sitting on some crates because they couldn't find an actual bench without going back rinkside and he doesn't really feel like dealing with anyone—especially not Adam—right now.

He holds out the nearly empty bottle. "Want the rest?" 

"Okay." Yuzuru hands him the keychain in exchange for the drink. "Do you like it?"

"It tastes okay, I guess. Kinda weird. Asian drinks are always weird." Yuzuru is giving him a funny look, a tiny crease between his brows somewhere between a frown and a grin. "You know, like all the Japanese stuff." Well, okay, it's probably not weird for Yuzuru since he grew up with it. "Have you heard of Wang herbal tea?"

"Yes," Yuzuru says—and, right, he's been around the world. He probably has. Yuzuru covers his mouth with one hand for a second. He's laughing, Nathan realizes. At him? No. Yuzuru doesn't laugh at people. "What I mean is," Yuzuru touches his hand, the one holding the keychain, "do you like Pooh bear?"

"Uh," says Nathan. He looks at the little figurine. "Yeah. I guess. He's cute." _It suits you,_ he doesn't say, because that would be—not something you normally say. 

"Good," Yuzuru says. "He is for you."

It takes him a second. Probably because it's late, and even if he's mostly over the jet lag by now, the third practice session of the day is always the hardest. He's been cold all day, from the wind and the jet lag and the ice when he fell. He can still taste the banana drink in his mouth. It tastes yellow, like Pooh bear. Except that's not right; cartoons don't have a taste.

"Thank you," he says after a second too long. Yuzuru doesn't seem bothered by it. Just smiles, inclining his head a little. The movement makes his hair flutter into his eyes. 

Flutter. That's a funny word.

He watches Yuzuru finish the rest of the drink neither of them really wanted, probably. It's warmed him up a bit, though. He wonders if Yuzuru feels the same.

"Did you know," Nathan says out loud, "that Yuzu is the name of a fruit?"

 

* * *

 

"It's a citrus fruit," Vincent explains in that know-it-all voice of his. "In Korean, it's called yuja."

"Interesting," says Mirai. 

Adam makes a humming sound. "What's it called in Chinese?"

Vincent pauses. Adam raises one eyebrow. Vincent raises one back. "Asian languages don't always directly translate, you know. Like I said, it's a Japanese fruit—"

"It's called _you zi_ ," Nathan says. He's being petty, which is all kinds of not conducive to a healthy competitive mindset, but he can't help it. Nobody ever one-ups Vincent on trivia: Adam, because he doesn't care, and Mirai, because—well, for some reason, Mirai has decided to indulge Vincent. Nathan doesn't remember her ever doing that for him.

Then again, _he_ didn't have a ginormous crush on her. Maybe this is her way of letting him down easy. Maybe she wouldn't have to, if Vincent weren't so obvious about it. 

Like the way he's giving Nathan a sulky look now, when he thinks no one else is looking. Adam is definitely looking. He's always on his phone, but he always notices everything. Sometimes Nathan suspects him of using his phone camera to secretly record everyone, when he's supposedly taking another selfie for instagram.

Except, well. Adam is an actual adult and has better things to do with his life. Because he apparently has a life outside of skating. It's weird and also kind of amazing.

Nathan wonders what he himself will be like in ten years' time. 

Mirai sighs. "All this talk about fruit is making me hungry." She makes puppy eyes at Adam. "Hand me a water?"

"I got it," Vincent says before Adam even has a chance to quip, _go get your own drink from the fridge, Mirai, you're a strong independent woman who don't need no water boy._

"I'm gonna call it a night," Nathan says, while Vincent's selecting the most perfectly shaped water bottle to offer to his most perfectly unattainable person. What a dork.

Mirai waves him out. "Sleep tight!" 

Adam gives him a nod. "Go get 'em tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Looking back, he wonders if some contrary part of himself decided to do just the opposite of what Adam told him to do, even though Adam had been completely sincere. For once. Except that's not fair, is it? Adam is snarky and Adam doesn't give a crap what anyone thinks, but Adam isn't actually mean.

He goes straight to the practice rink—"Changing first, Nathan," Rafael scolds and Nathan ignores him—still wearing the same costume and the layer of dried sweat and disappointment that feels grosser than all the rest combined. 

They were supposed to work on spins today. He hates spins. His spins are fine. He digs his blades into fresh ice, gathering speed, steps into the transitions without losing any momentum and throws himself into the air.

He lands every jump he missed during competition. He lands the quad flip twice.

After half an hour, Rafael drags him off the ice. "Rest, food, shower. You have done enough today."

"Not really," Nathan mutters. He realizes how immature that sounds as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It's unlike him, or at least, it's unlike any version of him that's existed since he decided to stop being a baby about everything.

There's a pause. He feels himself flush. Rafael gives him a moment longer to get good and embarrassed, before roughly clapping him on the shoulder. 

"Enough," he says firmly. "You think Mao Asada became Mao Asada by being stupid about practice? Hm? She was landing triple axels after twelve years! It is a long career."

"Right." There's no coming back from an argument in which Asada's name has been invoked. One of the first things Nathan learned. He shrugs, feels his shirt sticking to his shoulder blades and grimaces. "I'm gonna go change. And shower."

"Good," is all Rafael says. It's enough.

 

* * *

 

He calls his parents, goes to bed at ten, and wakes up six hours later for no good reason. It's still dark outside and will be for hours yet. He stares at the bedside clock. He stares up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and slows his breathing. He's not competing today, but the others will be—Maia and Alex and Bradie, and tomorrow, Adam and Mirai. They're going to have a hell of a time clawing back a medal after what happened yesterday.

They should have let Vincent skate the short.

These are the kinds of thoughts that don't help, and this is exactly why he doesn't like thinking about things. He turns over and resolves to sleep for at least another hour.

Twenty minutes later, darkness pressing against his eyelids and sleep getting farther away, not closer, Nathan curses and kicks off the covers.

The practice rink is deserted. He sees a couple staff members, but no one bothers him as he laces up his skates. 

He doesn't feel tired, is the thing. A bit dreamy, maybe, the world and the cold and even the sounds of his skates going soft around the edges. He half-closes his eyes. It didn't feel this way yesterday, when everyone was watching him and Nathan felt like he was watching himself, too, from somewhere just far enough away that he couldn't stop himself from screwing up the only thing he's ever wanted.

"Nathan?"

His eyes snap open. He doesn't trip, because he's spent too many years honing his balance to do something like that, but it's probably a closer thing than he'd like to admit. He really is off his game this week.

Yuzuru is standing at the opposite side of the rink, skates on his feet and one hand on the boards.

Nathan lets his momentum carry him over. Yuzuru also looks soft this morning. Or maybe it's Nathan and not the rest of the world that's gone a little fuzzy around the edges. He says, "What are you doing here so early?"

"You were here first," Yuzuru points out. Which. Fair enough. Factually speaking.

He tries to think of something else to say. Nothing comes to mind. 

Yuzuru steps onto the ice. He's wearing what looks like two sweaters and thick mittens. Yuzuru says, quietly, "Are you okay?"

Nathan opens his mouth to say, _Yeah, of course,_ and what comes out instead is, 

"Why'd you give me that keychain?"

It's weird to see Yuzuru not smiling, though obviously he has before. He's seen Yuzuru with his game face on. Yuzuru with his listening expression. Yuzuru fixing his gaze at the judges, at the audience, at the camera so intently it feels like he's reaching right into your soul through digital pixels. How any of that is even possible, Nathan doesn't know. It's not, probably. It's definitely not. But sometimes it feels like it.

Yuzuru looks completely serious when he says, "Because. I wanted to." He says it like it explains everything. It really doesn't. "I wanted to give you something."

"What," Nathan hears himself ask, "like a good luck charm?"

"If you like."

He doesn't like anything about this. He likes flying across the ice and leaving it behind for a jump; he likes the bone-deep satisfaction of a good skate; he likes the clarity he gets during competition, sometimes, when every second of reality matches the rhythms drummed into his body through years of practice. None of those things match what he's feeling right now. 

"I don't think it's really working for me," Nathan says. "Pooh's kinda your personal good luck charm, isn't he? So, you know. Probably was unfair to ask him to work overtime for me, too."

Yuzuru says, "I see."

Nathan wonders if he actually understood any of that, or if he's just being nice. Yuzuru does that. He's nice to people he doesn't have to be nice to, like dumb kids who've barely settled into senior competition and definitely aren't in his league. Not yet, anyway, back then. Not that it'd stopped him from stopping Nathan whenever they saw each other, going out of his way to say hello.

He doesn't like the way Yuzuru's looking at him now, as if he's waiting for an answer and Nathan's the one who's supposed to come up with it.

"Is your coach here?" he asks instead. "I can clear out. I'm not even supposed to be here—it's not an official practice for me. I just came here because I couldn't sleep."

"Oh, no," says Yuzuru. "Brian is not here. Only me."

"Right." He wonders what time it is. Probably still way too early, given nobody else has shown up yet. Nathan says, "Well, you can have the rink. I should probably—"

"Skate with me," Yuzuru says. "For a little bit?"

He should have worn something warmer, Nathan thinks. He's getting cold again. 

"All right," he says.

Yuzuru smiles. Nathan skates off, and Yuzuru follows. He'll warm up if he just gets moving. 

They start in parallel, side by side, the whisper of Yuzuru's blades in sync with his. It's unsettling. After a couple laps, they drift toward opposite ends for more space, and Nathan breathes again. Now it's just like any other time they've shared practice ice, only quieter. No coaches calling out encouragement or advice. No buzz of conversation. No furtively turning his head to see what the latest crashing sound was, who fell this time.

He hears the distinctive scrape signaling someone launching into a jump. 

He looks over just in time to see Yuzuru land what looks like a double. The landing is almost silent, as if Yuzuru exerts no pressure on the ice at all. Nathan's never been able to understand how he does that.

They pass each other at the center. Nathan asks, "How's your ankle?"

"It's better," Yuzuru says. He circles back to stay within conversation distance, skates closer than he needs to be probably; if Nathan reached out he could snag Yuzuru's wrist and spin him to a stop. 

"Good," is what Nathan says instead. "I'm glad."

Yuzuru smiles as if he agrees. "I don't want to make it too easy for you."

Nathan laughs, surprising himself, but he can't help it: nothing about chasing Yuzuru has been _easy_. He starts to say as much, and a voice calls out, 

"Yuzu-kun?"

Yuzuru spins away before Nathan has even identified who that voice belongs to. A second later, he sees the person stepping onto the ice, curls even messier than usual this early in the morning.

Shoma gives him an unreadable look when Nathan skates past.

There's probably nothing to it—Shoma never says anything, even though these days Nathan's pretty sure Shoma understands more than half of what's being said around him—but some part of Nathan still wants to turn around and say, _Don't mention this to anyone, okay?_

Which is ridiculous. The only person Shoma would talk to is Yuzuru.

When he looks back over his shoulder—after he's stepped off the ice, put on his skate guards—Yuzuru is skating a lazy slalom, staying just within conversation distance as Shoma trails after him. Neither of them looks over. Their coaches will probably be here soon. Rafael will be looking for him, too. 

_Get your head in the game, Nathan._

This is no time to be looking back at anything.

 

* * *

 

Mirai lands her triple axel and the entire team are on their feet. Adam is yelling something no one can hear over the cheering of the crowd. Alexa grabs Chris in a hug that's more of a headlock, and Nathan claps on autopilot. 

In the kiss and cry, Adam hugs Mirai and plants one on her cheek. She's laughing, they're all laughing and half giddy with expectation—Nathan tells himself to smile; if he doesn't, it'll look weird on camera—all that's left now is Alex and Maia's free dance. Nathan spends a minute wondering what's worse: the rest of their performances landing them all on the podium, or the whole team falling just short on the points he lost.

In retrospect, he feels stupid for doubting his teammates. But standing there, posing for pictures with the bronze medal around his neck, the only thing he can think is that he didn't earn this.

 

* * *

 

"You done feeling sorry for yourself?"

Nathan looks up from his phone. "Um. What?"

"We're up in our room," Adam says. "Come on."

"Actually, I was thinking of going to bed early. I need to—"

"Oh, please. If you really wanted to practice your visualization or whatever, you'd be hiding in your own room, not loitering out here where anybody can find you. If you were waiting for an invitation, here it is. The team wants you there. Now come on."

The common area is empty except for them. At least there's that, Nathan thinks glumly as he follows Adam upstairs; nobody else had to see him getting called out for acting like a stupid kid.

"There you are!" Mirai greets them with a sunny grin. "The quad squad!"

"Dream team!" Maia catcalls.

"Bamf champs?" Alex suggests, and gets booed down by the rest of the room.

Bradie is helping Alexa and Chris hand out plastic cups of some bubbly drink. Nathan hesitantly takes the cup that Alexa gives him; the look on his face makes her laugh. 

"It's sparkling apple cider, Nathan. And no, it's not going to break anyone's diet, so don't even start with me," she says to Adam who's just opened his mouth to make a remark. Mirai giggles into her cup. Alexa continues, "Also no, you cannot swap it out for Perrier. Toasting with water is bad luck, you know."

"Even though the competition's over?" Bradie asks.

"Just the first part." Chris settles down next to Alexa, one arm around her waist. "I don't know about you guys, but we're still gunning for gold."

"Of course," Alexa replies fondly. They smile at each other. 

Nathan catches Adam rolling his eyes at the PDA. Mirai watches with a faintly wistful expression. Alex is on his phone and appears to have missed the whole thing. Maia kicks him, and raises her cup of cider. 

"To a great week, you guys," she says. "Let's do even better in our individual events."

"And then some of us can have a real drink," Adam adds, and Mirai laughs, and Nathan lifts his cup along with everyone else. 

The cider has gone a bit warm and doesn't really taste like anything apart from sugar and fizz. It makes him think of vending machines, sitting in an arena corridor humming with pipes, the taste of weird banana drinks. That keychain is probably still in the pocket of his warm up jacket.

He won't make the same mistake twice, Nathan thinks.

 

* * *

 

"Your little shadow is here," Boyang says.

Shoma gives both of them a flat look, probably because Boyang said that in Chinese. Nathan glances over his shoulder and sees Vincent attempting a ludicrously deep edge on a spread eagle. If he digs any deeper, he's going to fall flat on his ass. A couple paces away, Mirai is hanging over the boards chatting with Adam while he takes a water break.

"He is not following me," Nathan says in careful Chinese. "He is following Mirai."

Boyang's eyebrows go up, then down, before making an almost perfect upside down V of mildly horrified surprise. _Yeah,_ Nathan thinks. _I feel you, buddy._ He doesn't know how to say that in Chinese, though, and Shoma's expression has started to turn from the usual vaguely-irritated-by-the-world-in-general to actually-irritated-by-something-in-specific. 

Nathan switches back to English. "Do you want an introduction? I don't know if you've met Vincent."

"No," says Shoma, even though the question was directed at Boyang. Not even clear which part he's saying no to. Probably both, knowing Shoma. Before he can ask either way, Shoma skates off toward the center of the rink.

Boyang looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Maybe later," he says. "Oh, and," he adds before his coach calls him away. " _Xin nian kuai le!_ "

"You, too," Nathan says automatically, before it occurs to him that he actually does know how to say happy new year in Chinese, and he probably should have gone with that. Too late now. Boyang won't be offended, though. Probably.

He still has maybe a minute left of his five-minute break, but with the other two gone there's no reason to keep on wallflowering. If he stays here too long, Vincent will probably wander over and try to talk to him. Though the chances of that are small as long as Mirai's around.

He skates toward Adam, thinking Rafael can't be far away. Instead he sees Brian Orser.

Nathan scans the rink—and sees Fernandez. And, right, of course, Brian Orser is coaching approximately half the field here. During actual events it's like the guy's trying to be two places at once, sometimes, down at the boards encouraging a skater about to take the ice while simultaneously dashing up to the kiss and cry to congratulate or console another charge.

Though, usually, Yuzuru is the one consoling other people who've just lost to him.

"Nathan," Rafael says from right next to him. Nathan whips around. His coach leans on the boards, looking amused by his reaction. "Am I so ugly I scare you? No, that was lame joke. You do not have to laugh. Review your spins. Okay?"

He'd rather work on his jumps, but that's neither here nor there. His spins are also neither here nor there today. There are too many people on the ice, or at least it feels that way. He narrowly avoids hitting Vincent with an aborted flying camel. Fernandez seems to have a knack for not noticing anyone around him. Shoma skates past and gives Nathan a weird look, and even if Nathan had time to explain it to him, he doesn't know what he'd explain.

After three consecutive attempts at a sit spin that probably looks as ugly as it feels, Rafael calls him back to the boards.

"You are thinking too much," his coach says. "Making basic mistakes."

"I know," Nathan says. "I won't make those mistakes tomorrow. I'll be careful. I won't mess up stupid things."

Rafael makes a humming sound. Nathan is dead certain he's about to get another anecdote about Mao Asada. Instead, Rafael says, 

"Be careful not to be too careful. You understand? You need to skate like you. You must be only you."

It sounds simple enough. But how's he supposed to do that, Nathan wonders, when lately it's starting to feel like he doesn't even know who he is?

 

* * *

 

He should have seen it coming. 

82.27. Seventeenth place. At least he knows he's qualified for the free. And how did he get here, to this point where _qualification_ nearly became a legitimate concern?

 _Shake it off,_ Rafael commands, seemingly unaware that he's quoting a hit pop song. _Go run. Work in the gym. We go back to the rink only tonight and in the morning._

The pressure's gotten to him, Rafael's frown says. The one student he never thought he'd have to worry about, so it just figures that Nathan fell apart at the worst possible moment. It's funny; he hasn't disappointed anyone this badly since he started skating competitively and his whole family realized that Nathan, the kid brother, the baby, was actually good at something, too.

Except that's not fair, the responsible part of him knows. His parents have always been proud of him. And just because older brothers are genetically programmed to pick on little brothers doesn't mean they actually want him to fail.

It's the Olympics. He should have known better.

But the pressure doesn't seem to have gotten to anyone else. He doesn't know if it's because there's less pressure on the rest of the team, or if he just missed the memo. The one titled, _How to Actually Live Your Olympic Dream, Instead of Flopping Harder than Evan Lysacek at His First Olympics (but Remember, He Redeemed Himself)._

Except—no, there's definitely no memo named that, anywhere. 

And there's no way in hell Nathan's losing to someone _Vincent Zhou_ calls an idol.

He finishes his round of media obligations just in time to catch the last few seconds of Yuzuru's short program, the live feed playing silently on one of the TVs in the hallway. He looks good. He always looks good. In some ways, he's always going to be the Yuzuru that Nathan dreamed of catching up to, someday, somehow.

That night, his mom calls again. 

"Today is today," she tells him. "Tomorrow is another day. That was not your best. The real you _hai mei xian shi chu lai, Wei Wei._ You understand?"

"Yeah, I know." He can't quite remember what _xian shi_ means, but he gets the gist of it. "I just got in my own head. Rafael said the same thing."

" _Ting_ Rafael _de_ ," his mom says, as if he's still a kid who needs to be reminded to listen to his coach. "And you show them the real you tomorrow. Okay?"

"Yeah," he says again. "I mean, I'll try."

"You will do it. I know you will be able to do it."

"I know, but."

"But?"

"But—I don't know. What kind of me am I supposed to show the world? It's not like they really know me. They just know I can do quads. They don't actually know anything about me."

"They know you are so talented," his mom says slowly. "What else are they supposed to know?"

"I just meant..." Except he doesn't actually know what he means. And why is that, he wonders. Why is it that everything can be so clear and right there and it's like he's gaining speed, gaining speed, his whole world tense with pent up momentum for the jump that he knows is coming—and yet he can't seem to get off the ground.

This never used to happen to him.

" _Wei Wei?_ " his mom says. She sounds worried. Because he left a sentence hanging, he realizes. He wonders what she's worried he's going to say. If she's ever wondered.

"Nothing," he says. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just tired, I guess."

"Go sleep, go sleep," she says immediately. "Sleep, and eat something normal, okay? Not Korean food. Korean food _tai la le._ "

"It's not that bad. You've been to that Korean place near dad's work."

She makes a disapproving sound. "Just take care of yourself first. Okay? Dad and I will call tomorrow." There's a pause, and then, "We love you very much, Nathan."

There's something else she wants to add, he can tell. But she can't find the right words in English, and he wouldn't understand the sentiment in Chinese. So she says nothing, and he doesn't ask.

"Yeah," is all he can tell her. "Love you, too, mom."

 

* * *

 

When he was twelve, Nathan came home from training one day to his brothers laughing uproariously over some video game their friends were playing.

"Dude, what the hell is that!" one of the guys said. "That's so gay!"

"Hey, hey, hey, don't say that," someone else laughed. "Tony's little brother actually _is_ gay."

"Nathan is not gay!" his brother yelled back. But he was laughing, too.

"Man, didn't your brother quit hockey for figure skating?"

Colin tried to say something over the ensuing laughter, but Nathan didn't stick around to hear it. He snuck up to his room and quietly locked the door. His brothers never let him play video games with them, and now he knew why.

 

* * *

 

When he steps out onto the rink the next day, the whole world goes silent. 

There are people waiting to see how badly he'll screw up this time, he knows. There are people hoping that he'll redeem himself. His parents are watching, and his siblings, too. Rafael is there, by the boards, where he always is.

If you add it all up, that's a lot of people he has the potential to disappoint in the next four minutes and thirty-nine seconds. And even if he spent every minute of the rest of his life trying to explain what went wrong and apologizing for it, there's no way he'll be able to make all of them understand. 

Skating doesn't work like that.

It's like a worry that he can't voice to his mother and a reassurance that she can't offer back, because he's never going to be able to ask.

Nathan looks down at the ice that's always the same—that's always been a safe place to land, no matter where in the world or when—breathes out—and lets it all fall away.

The music starts. 

 

* * *

 

Yuzuru joins them on the leaders couch with a faint smile. He looks exhausted, but happy. The way you're supposed to feel after giving it your all in competition. And Nathan knows, then and there, that Yuzuru is going to be standing at the top of that podium, whoever else might be standing beside him. 

"Picture?" Boyang asks, gesturing with his phone. Yuzuru immediately scoots closer. Nathan considers pulling a face, but that's childish. What did Boyang ever do to him, anyway.

He smiles for the camera, Boyang thanks them both, and Yuzuru earnestly wishes Boyang good luck. Boyang returns the sentiment just as profusely, with that particular Asian brand of extraness that makes Nathan start to feel like he's at a family reunion.

Yuzuru catches the look on his face. His lip twitches. "How are you?" he asks quietly, after the camera feed has switched to show the rink again. 

"Fine," Nathan says. "Good. How's—how are you?"

Dumb question, given Yuzuru just delivered a gold medal defense that'll probably go down in the history books. But Yuzuru takes a moment to think, and answers seriously, 

"Better, now. It's been difficult, this year. I was only—I only had the time to think about Olympics. I left many other things. Happy things. But I think that changes now."

Nathan starts to ask what he means by that, when a roar goes up from the arena, and then Fernandez is on the ice.

Yuzuru's eyes snap back to the live feed of the rink.

He can ask later, Nathan decides, and watches Fernandez skate. 

Four and a half minutes later, he's gathering up his things before they've even announced Fernandez's score. The ear-splitting cheers would have told him everything he needs to know, even if he hadn't seen the look of rising hope on Yuzuru's face. Yuzuru is nice to everyone, sure, but it's obvious when he really cares about someone, like his actual friends, and his training mate.

He's about to get to his feet when a touch on his shoulder stops him. 

Yuzuru says, "You were amazing, Nathan," and hugs him. 

Nathan reaches out before he can stop himself. He sees the camera just in time to pat Yuzuru's shoulder instead of clinging. "Congrats," Nathan tries to say, but his throat has closed up and anyway, it's almost impossible to hear anything over the cheering of the crowd.

Yuzuru says something he doesn't quite catch. Yuzuru touches his jacket for a second, and Nathan doesn't understand that either, not until later—after the media rounds and after he's called his parents, after Rafael sits him down with Adam and states, in the bluntest English he knows, just how proud he is of the both of them—and after Adam excuses himself to cry without anyone else present, he suspects—Nathan wanders alone down to the exit, past a vending machine, reaches into his pocket and hears something crinkle.

It's a piece of paper, torn from the back of a program, with a phone number scribbled in blue ink.

Yuzuru must have slipped it into his pocket when he hugged Nathan. 

 

* * *

 

 _It should have been me,_ Nathan thought. He watched Yuzuru crying, hugging Shoma and Fernandez, and all he could think was, _That was supposed to be me._

 

* * *

 

He imagines walking across the Olympic Village and knocking on Yuzuru's door.

 _I need to tell you something,_ he imagines saying, heart pumping like he's in the final minute of a free skate, adrenaline and fatigue buzzing louder than the music and the crowd combined. Yuzuru's lips parted slightly, like he's going to say, _You misunderstood_ , or _I'm sorry_ , or any of the million other things that Nathan's thought about now and again and doesn't want to hear, not now, not ever. 

_I don't need you to make it easy for me,_ he imagines telling Yuzuru. _I just need you to be around for as long as I'll be chasing you, which is a long time, so I hope you're ready for that. Because I am. And I will be. For as long as you are._

 

* * *

 

When he was ten, Andrea Joyce playfully asked him in an interview, "So when can we expect to see you at the Olympics, Nathan?"

He thought about it for a second. Math had never been that hard for him. Ten plus eight. 

"In 2018," he told her.

 

* * *

 

Thinking about it now, even four years is a really long time.

"So?" Adam says when Nathan mentions that bit. He leans down to unlace his other skate. "You always said your favorite skater is Plushenko. And Rafael can't go five minutes without talking about Asada. Longevity has gotta be hardwired into your DNA by now. Go to the next three Olympics, and by the time you're done, they'll all be saying that Plushenko retired early."

He sounds weirdly calm about all of this. "Not all of us can be an immortal witch, you know."

"Oh, I'm sure you, too, could learn the forbidden arts if you really applied yourself." Adam raises one eyebrow. Nathan feels himself going red; he fishes in his bag for something to wipe his skates with. Adam laughs. "Lesson one: don't bring the sass if you can't follow through."

Nathan opens his mouth—closes it again. Makes a face, because, fine, lesson noted. Honestly, he isn't sure what kind of advice he expected from Adam, because he's never asked before; and judging by the surprise on Adam's face earlier, when they stepped off the ice, Adam never expected to be asked, either.

It's been a weird week, to say the least.

"You probably don't believe it coming from me," Adam says, "but results aren't everything. You set your own rules for your life, you know? You have to. And I'm not just saying that because I'm never gonna have the track record you're going to have."

The locker room is quiet. Rafael left earlier, and they were the last ones off the ice. Nathan sits up and looks at Adam. Something about what Adam just said takes him a second to process. 

"Wait. You think I...don't respect you?"

Adam raises an eyebrow. "I think you've known for a long time that you're a better skater than most people you've ever shared ice with. You do know that, right?"

"Well, _yeah,_ but—okay, no, you tricked me into that one," Nathan accuses when Adam rolls his eyes. "I'm just saying. I think you've achieved a lot. Just being who you are."

He waits for a snarky retort. He doesn't get one. 

Adam gives him a thoughtful look. "Well, I certainly hope so. But who can really say." He sounds sad in a way that Nathan's never heard before, not even when Adam was talking about Sochi.

Nathan says, "It kind of makes me uncomfortable to hear you being modest."

"Oh, shut up." Adam makes a face, but the weird mood is gone. He finishes packing up the rest of his things while Nathan zips up his coat. "Sarcasm really doesn't suit a poster boy, you know."

"It's kinda overrated," Nathan admits. 

"Yeah, well." Adam sounds vaguely sympathetic. Right up until he says, "I know I look much better on a poster than you do, with those skinny stickman arms."

"Screw you," Nathan shoots back. "I could probably bench one-twenty."

"Wow," Adam laughs. "You're probably just strong enough to lift Mirai. I think she has more muscle than you, actually, so maybe not."

They walk out into the night in companionable silence. It's not new, exactly, but Nathan also doesn't think this would ever have happened if not for the Olympic Village. He's kind of glad Adam decided to stick around. 

"You know how Vincent has a crush on Mirai?" Nathan says, breaking the silence.

Adam snorts. "Yeah, who doesn't."

"Isn't it weird, though? Having a crush on another skater."

"They're not directly competing," Adam points out. After a pause, "I mean, it's totally a thing that happens. Like, I used to have a huge crush on Brian Joubert."

He might be imagining it, but Adam seems to be watching him a little too closely. Nathan shrugs. "Yeah, well. That's different."

"What, because I'm gay?"

No, Nathan thinks, and wonders if he would even have been able to tell, if Adam hadn't already told the whole world. He wonders if Mirai always knew, or if that's one of the things you can only tell about someone when you're as close as they are. He wonders if other people always suspected about Adam, just by looking at him. They're figure skaters, so of course there are rumors. It's half prejudice and half jealousy, and almost always about the guys who look a little too angelic to be real.

He doesn't really believe any of the rumors. Because obviously—Adam's example notwithstanding—being inhumanly beautiful doesn't automatically make you gay. If that were true, Nathan would definitely be one hundred percent straight.

"No," Nathan says out loud. "But you didn't see him all the time, right? Not like Vincent and Mirai."

"Oh." Adam relaxes a little. So he wasn't imagining it. Adam shrugs. "Well, Gracie totally had a weird thing for Alex at one point. Don't tell her I told you. Actually, don't tell Alex I told you either. It'll go to his head, and then Maia will have _my_ head."

Huh, Nathan thinks. "And that was weird, right? You just said."

"It's weird because it's Gracie," Adam says cryptically. "Why're you asking anyway? You got a crush on someone?"

His tone is teasing. Nathan sinks his chin into his scarf. It's cold enough he would have done that anyway, so there's nothing for Adam to read into. 

"No," he says. "I just think it's gotta be annoying for Mirai, when he's being so obvious."

"Maybe," Adam replies. "But I think that's for her to decide."

 

* * *

 

When he was sixteen, Yuzuru Hanyu skated up to him at NHK Trophy and said, _Hello_ —and for a second Nathan thought his heart was going to skip right out of his chest.

Last week, Yuzuru gave him a keychain and touched his hand and asked, _Do you like it?_

Two nights ago, right before Nathan got kicked off the leaders couch, Yuzuru hugged him and said something that sounded like, _Let's keep in touch. No more keeping things out._

Two days later, Nathan still doesn't know what he meant by that, exactly.

The only way to find out is to send a message to the phone number scribbled on the scrap of paper that's still in his pocket.

_Hi. This is Nathan._

After a couple minutes, he adds, 

_Congratulations, Yuzu. Let's compete again at the next Olympics. And at Worlds before then._

 

* * *

 

The snowdrifts around the Olympic Village have grown tall enough to become impromptu training venues for some of the mountain sports. 

Nathan finds him waiting where he said he'd be, by one of the sculptures that nobody on the team has been able to identify. It might be a mythical bear. Or maybe a dragon.

"Hey," says Nathan. 

Yuzuru smiles back. "Hi."

He's wearing his Team Japan jacket and thick black gloves. They're soft to the touch, Nathan learns, when Yuzuru hands him a can of something orange looking. The label is in Korean. 

"I learned a new English word," Yuzuru says, at the same time Nathan asks, "What's this?"

Yuzuru laughs and waves for him to go first. 

Nathan looks at the can again. There's a little picture of a yellow fruit, and a Chinese character he doesn't know. "Is this…um. Is this some kind of Korean pickle?"

"No. Juice." Yuzuru grins. "It's yuzu juice."

Nathan looks at him. Looks back at the can. He starts laughing—he doesn't know what else to do, and maybe that's fine, because Yuzuru is laughing, too.

"Your turn," Nathan says when they've caught their breaths. "You were saying. What was the English word you learned?"

"It is a few words actually." Yuzuru smiles at him. "Go out there and kick ass." 

And before Nathan can recover from the surprise of hearing _that_ coming out of Yuzuru's mouth, Yuzuru skips forward half a step and hugs him. It lasts just long enough for Nathan to press his hands to Yuzuru's back, automatic. He smells like shampoo and milk. Nathan lets go first, and Yuzuru dances back.

"See you at Beijing?" Yuzuru asks.

"Yeah," Nathan replies when he can breathe again. Cold air burns his lungs, but he breathes and breathes out the fog that's been clouding his head for weeks. It's 23 degrees in Pyeongchang and he's holding a can of juice and Yuzuru is smiling at him—and maybe it's been obvious all along, because Nathan has never been as sure of anything as he is right now when he promises, "I'll see you there."


End file.
